Chapter VIII.

       The Broncho Busters

       Table of Contents

      Jed Briscoe rejoined the round-up the day following Fraser’s initiation. He took silent note of the Texan’s popularity, of how the boys all called him “Steve” because he had become one of them, and were ready either to lark with him or work with him. He noticed, too, that the ranger did his share of work without a whimper, apparently enjoying the long, hard hours in the saddle. The hill riding was of the roughest, and the cattle were wild as deers and as agile. But there was no break-neck incline too steep for Steve Fraser to follow.

      Once Jed chanced upon Steve stripped for a bath beside the creek, and he understood the physical reason for his perfect poise. The wiry, sinuous muscles, packed compactly without obtrusion, played beneath the skin like those of a panther. He walked as softly and as easily as one, with something of the rippling, unconscious grace of that jungle lord. It was this certainty of himself that vivified the steel-gray eyes which looked forth unafraid, and yet amiably, upon a world primitive enough to demand proof of every man who would hold the respect of his fellows.

      Meanwhile, Briscoe waited for Struve and his enemy to become entangled in the net he was spinning. He made no pretense of fellowship with Fraser; nor, on the other hand, did he actively set himself against him with the men. He was ready enough to sneer when Dick France grew enthusiastic about his new friend, but this was to be expected from one of his jaundiced temper.

      “Who is this all-round crackerjack you’re touting, Dick?” he asked significantly.

      France was puzzled. “Who is he? Why, he’s Steve Fraser.”

      “I ain’t asking you what his name is. I’m asking who he is. What does he do for a living? Who recommended him so strong to the boys that they take up with him so sudden?”

      “I don’t care what he does for a living. Likely, he rides the range in Texas. When it comes to recommendations, he’s got one mighty good one written on his face.”

      “You think so, do you?”

      “That’s what I think, Jed. He’s the goods—best of company, a straight-up rider, and a first-rate puncher. Ask any of the boys.”

      “I’m using my eyes, Dick. They tell me all I need to know.”

      “Well, use them to-morrow. He’s going to take a whirl at riding Dead Easy. Next day he’s going to take on Rocking Horse. If he makes good on them, you’ll admit he can ride.”

      “I ain’t saying he can’t ride. So can you. If it’s plumb gentle, I can make out to stick on a pony myself.”

      “Course you can ride. Everybody knows that. You’re the best ever. Any man that can win the championship of Wyoming——But you’ll say yourself them strawberry roans are wicked devils.”

      “He hasn’t ridden them yet, Dick.”

      “He’s going to.”

      “We’ll be there to see it. Mebbe he will. Mebbe he won’t. I’ve known men before who thought they were going to.”

      It was in no moment of good-natured weakness that Fraser had consented to try riding the outlaw horses. Nor had his vanity anything to do with it. He knew a time might be coming when he would need all the prestige and all the friendship he could earn to tide him over the crisis. Jed Briscoe had won his leadership, partly because he could shoot quicker and straighter, ride harder, throw a rope more accurately, and play poker better than his companions.

      Steve had a mind to show that he, too, could do some of these things passing well. Wherefore, he had let himself be badgered good-naturedly into trying a fall with these famous buckers. As the heavy work of the round-up was almost over, Dillon was glad to relax discipline enough to give the boys a little fun.

      The remuda was driven up while the outfit was at breakfast. His friends guyed Steve with pleasant prophecy.

      “He’ll be hunting leather about the fourth buck!”

      “If he ain’t trying to make of himse’f one of them there Darius Green machines!” suggested another.

      “Got any last words, Steve? Dead Easy most generally eats ‘em alive,” Dick derided.

      “Sho! Cayn’t you see he’s so plumb scared he cayn’t talk?”

      Fraser grinned and continued to eat. When he had finished he got his lariat from the saddle, swung to Siegfried’s pony, and rode unobtrusively forward to the remuda. The horses were circling round and round, so that it was several minutes before he found a chance. When he did, the rope snaked forward and dropped over the head of the strawberry roan. The horse stood trembling, making not the least resistance, even while the ranger saddled and cinched.

      But before the man settled to the saddle, the outlaw was off on its furious resistance. It went forward and up into the air with a plunging leap. The rider swung his hat and gave a joyous whoop. Next instant there was a scatter of laughing men as the horse came toward them in a series of short, stiff-legged bucks which would have jarred its rider like a pile driver falling on his head had he not let himself grow limp to meet the shock.

      All the tricks of its kind this unbroken five-year-old knew. Weaving, pitching, sunfishing, it fought superbly, the while Steve rode with the consummate ease of a master. His sinuous form swayed instinctively to every changing motion of his mount. Even when it flung itself back in blind fury, he dropped lightly from the saddle and into it again as the animal struggled to its feet.

      The cook waved a frying pan in frantic glee. “Hurra-ay! You’re the goods, all right, all right.”

      “You bet. Watch Steve fan him. And he ain’t pulled leather yet. Not once.”

      An unseen spectator was taking it in from the brow of a little hill crowned with a group of firs. She had reached this point just as the Texan had swung to the saddle, and she watched the battle between horse and man intently. If any had been there to see, he might have observed a strange fire smouldering in her eyes. For the first time there was filtering through her a vague suspicion of this man who claimed to have heart trouble, and had deliberately subjected himself to the terrific strain of such a test. She had seen broncho busters get off bleeding at mouth and nose and ears after a hard fight, and she had never seen a contest more superbly fought than this one. But full of courage as the horse was, it had met its master and began to know it.

      The ranger’s quirt was going up and down, stinging Dead Easy to more violent exertions, if possible. But the outlaw had shot its bolt. The plunges grew less vicious, the bucks more feeble. It still pitched, because of the unbroken gameness that defied defeat, but so mechanically that the motions could be forecasted.

      Then Steve began to soothe the brute. Somehow the wild creatute became aware that this man who was his master was also disposed to be friendly. Presently it gave up the battle, quivering in every limb. Fraser slipped from the saddle, and putting his arm across its neck began to gentle the outlaw. The animal had always looked the incarnation of wickedness. The red eyes in its ill-shaped head were enough to give one bad dreams. A quarter of an hour before, it had bit savagely at him. Now it stood breathing deep, and trembling while its master let his hand pass gently over the nose and neck with soft words that slowly won the pony back from the terror into which it had worked itself.

      “You did well, Mr. Fraser from Texas,” Jed complimented him, with a smile that thinly hid his malice. “But it won’t do to have you going back to Texas with the word that Wyoming is shy of riders. I ain’t any great shakes, but I reckon I’ll have to take a whirl at Rocking Horse.” He had decided to ride for two reasons. One was that he